Path of One, Paths of Many
by Nickos101
Summary: Khoruzoth's early years had been heralded by powerful omens. With the threat of civil war coming to Skyrim he strikes out on his own, seeking honour and glory in combat. His journey takes him across the snowy land of Skyrim, crossing paths with many whose fate is tied with his own. Will Khoruzoth return to Dushnikh Yal and become Chief, or just another casualty of war?
1. Chapter 1

_"An Orc blade is a very personal thing. Anger, regret, pride. All these things are put into our steel."_ – Gharol gra-Dushnikh  
_"This stronghold respects strength, and strength alone."_ – Burguk, Chief of Dushnikh Yal

Midnight approached.  
Masser, the greater moon, sat full and bright in the night sky, illuminating the rocky ground outside Dushnikh Yal. A lone wolf howled in the distance, its cry piercing the stillness of the night. _A good omen,_ thought Burguk. The Orc Chieftain looked over the assembled members of his tribe with pride. _His pride_, he mused, remembering the fearsome packs of feline beasts he had hunted in his youth in the deserts of Elsweyr. All save two were arrayed in a rough circle a short distance away from the stronghold, their faces impassive and their bodies still as they awaited the arrival of the final members.

A soft noise to Burguk's right caused him to turn his gaze to where Shel, third and favoured wife of the chief, was shifting nervously in place. A low growl from Burguk quickly stopped her action. Favoured wife or not, Burguk would brook no interruption to the upcoming ritual; Shel understood that another distraction could mean severe punishment, if not her death. So highly did Burguk prize the impending ritual of adulthood for his favourite son, that even the mother of the young orc would get no special treatment.

Finally, the wooden gate of the stronghold swung open and the remaining two tribe members approached the gathered crowd. First came Murbul, mother of Chief Burguk and the tribe's wise woman, garbed in the ancient traditional robe of Dushnikh Yal's shamans. She walked slowly, evenly; with each step her staff of office pounded the ground of the well-worn path leading from the gate. After ten paces, the orcs began to thump their own wooden staves, keeping time with the gnarled oak staff of Murbul. Following the wise woman was an orc youth; male, naked except for a loincloth, his body painted with ceremonial runes and symbols. His name was Khoruzoth, youngest son of Chief Burguk, and tonight he would become a man.

Murbul took her place in the circle at Burguk's left hand, continuing the pounding rhythm on the hard ground. Khoruzoth stepped into the middle of the circle, facing his father. _No,_ he corrected himself, _tonight he is only my chief_. Suddenly Murbul raised her staff, and as one the assembled orcs ceased their rhythmic pounding. "The strength of the Orcs," the wise woman intoned, her voice clear and powerful in the still night air, "is unmatched in all of Tamriel, for we face suffering greater than any other and our suffering gives us strength."

"Malacath is our witness." The assembled Orcs replied.

Murbul continued. "Tonight Khoruzoth, son of our Chief, seeks to join his strength to that of our tribe. In doing so, he casts off the shackles of childhood and must face suffering far greater than he has faced before."

"Suffering gives us strength." The orcs agreed. Khoruzoth grew tense. The details of the ritual had been withheld from him, but he remember the fearsome bruises his elder brothers had sported in the days following their own initiations. As Murbul continued her speech, Burguk observed his son, remembering the powerful omens that had surrounded the boy's birth and early life.

It was Orcish tradition that all important ceremonies happen at midnight. Marriages, funeral rites, initiations and so on were held in the light of Nirn's moons to reflect the outcast nature of their race and their deity, Malacath. Khoruzoth had not only come into the world at midnight, but at the height of a raging thunderstorm, a sign Burguk took to be a favourable omen from Malacath. A year later, Burguk had taken the youngling to the Shrine of Malacath to make an offering for the Daedra's blessing. The shrine was located in a small valley deep within the Velothi mountains that separated Skyrim and Morrowind. The journey was long and dangerous, particularly within the valley itself, for wild creatures often came down from the mountains for shelter and would attack any travellers they met. By longstanding tradition, the greater the threat, the more favourably Malacath would look upon the offering. For his previous sons, Burguk had fought bears and wolves with the younglings strapped to his back. His own father had fought a vicious battle with a sabrecat for Burguk's offering, earning the former chieftain a blinded eye. Burguk had long attributed the prosperity of Dushnikh Yal after he succeeded his father as chief to this event.

With Khoruzoth, however, Burguk had faced a pair of frost trolls. The muscled creatures were hard enough to deal with individually, what with their ability to heal from most non-fatal wounds incredibly quickly. Facing two with the added burden of a young orc child on his back had given Burguk the toughest fight of his life, greater even than his time spent in the Imperial Legion fighting in the Great War. Then, at least, he had his brother Ghorbash the Iron Hand by his side; against the trolls he was alone save for the child. The battle had lasted for half a day, with the final troll falling to Burguk's blade as the sun began to dip below the mountains, throwing the valley into dim shadow. Exhausted and covered in gore, Burguk decapitated one of the troll corpses; placing it, the babe and a copious amount of troll fat on the altar before the shrine. A single bolt of lightning struck the upraised sword held by the statue of Malacath's likeness, igniting the fat of the altar beneath but leaving the child unscathed. Beneath the rumble of the accompanying thunder, Burguk swore he had heard a pleased chuckle.

Burguk snapped out of his reverie just in time to join in the final words of intonation. "Malacath give you strength." At this point, Murbul stepped forward towards Khoruzoth, withdrawing a strip of black cloth from beneath the folds of her ceremonial robes. The youth bent forward slightly, allowing the shorter orc to place the blindfold over his eyes. The wise woman resumed her position around the circle and gestured for Burguk to speak.

"Sons and Daughters of Malacath." The Chieftain boomed. "Tonight the child known as Khoruzoth dies by our hand." There was a sharp intake of breath from Shel, but Burguk ignored his wife and continued his speech. "In his place will rise Khoruzoth gro-Dushnikh, our brother and fellow warrior."

To Khoruzoth he added, "The blood of our race runs hot within our veins. When faced with worthy foes, Malacath blesses us with a battle-rage that boils our blood, keeping us standing and fighting when lesser beings would long have fallen. Dushnikh Yal has a long tradition of powerful warriors whose berserker rages are unmatched even amongst others of our race. Hindered by your blindfold, which represents the trappings of your youth, you will fight the tribe until your rage awakens, or you die."

Khoruzoth said nothing in reply, for from the moment he had left the stronghold to the moment he passed his initiation into adulthood, he was not permitted to speak. Likewise, to cry out in pain during the impending fight would be looked upon unfavourably as a sign of weakness; the only sounds he was permitted would be soft grunts of exertion and, should he activate his battle-rage, the roar of battle-lust that accompanied the blessing of Malacath and signal to all that he was now a full member of the tribe.

Following the lead of Chief Burguk, the circle of Orcs tightened as the tribe members stepped towards Khoruzoth, until each Orc was no more than fifteen feet from the youth. As one, they gripped their staves in preparation; Burguk had the honour of first strike, but after that each would lash out at Khoruzoth whenever opportunity arose. The young orc held his hands loosely by his side, tilting his head slightly as he awaited the impending beating. For nearly a full minute no one moved, until Burguk suddenly lunged forward with a heavy overhand strike.

Khoruzoth sensed the blow in time to shift his weight slightly, causing the stave to hit his upper arm rather than his collarbone. The blow caused him to briefly stagger; had he taken the full impact he would likely have a fracture or worse. He had no time to recover before another blow struck him in the lower back, this time from a thrust. Again and again he was stuck by the staves of his kin; with each blow he felt his blood begin to boil. Only a short while had passed before his entire body felt like one large bruise. Suddenly his vision, which was dark and black beneath the blindfold, turned red as the blood in his veins turned white hot. With a bellowing roar he lunged forward, knowing only pain and fury. He struck out wildly, breaking the nose of Oglub, the brother of Burguk and Ghorbash; the older orc's fighting ability had deteriorated somewhat in the long years he had spent in the mines. Oglub stumbled backwards, his dark eyes flashing in the moonlight indicating that he, too, was close to raging.

Chief Burguk shouted quick, terse commands. Now was the critical point of the ritual; the assembled orcs needed to keep Khoruzoth in his rage-state for as long as possible, but should another warrior unleash their battle-rage there was a risk that one or the other could be killed. Nagrub, Burguk's firstborn son through his hunts-wife Arab, quickly pulled his uncle aside and away from the flailing Khoruzoth. Simultaneously, Ghorbash stuck the youth on the flat of his back with enough force to crack the staff. Khoruzoth whipped around and leapt towards Ghorbash, who neatly sidestepped the raging orc with the practiced step of one who had spent most of his life in combat. Other orcs joined in, landing blows and strikes before moving quickly beyond the range of a counterattack.

Murbul watched the ongoing fight carefully, waiting for a sign that the final stage of the initiation ceremony was to begin. As Khoruzoth's movements became more focused and less like a drunken brawler, Murbul stepped forward with a speed that belied her age and struck the raging youth in the chest with a sharp thrust approximately where his heart resided. As if turned to stone, Khoruzoth suddenly stopped moving, seemingly held in place by the staff wielded by the wise woman. Cautiously, Murbul withdrew the staff and stepped towards the youth, reaching up to remove his blindfold. In the light of the greater moon, Khoruzoth's eyes seemed to flicker with an internal flame, yet despite the battle-rage that still surged through his body, the eyes seemed almost peaceful.

Murbul breathed a sigh of relief, releasing the build-up of tension within her old bones. "He is ready. Take him to the forge."

Gharol, the forge-wife of Burguk, ran ahead of the group, accompanied by Umurn her son. They quickly reached the forge where several ingots sat glowing in the coals. Working silently as one, the two began building up the heat of the forge. No sooner had they finished when the rest of the tribe arrived, leading the seemingly entranced Khoruzoth. The forge-wife place a hammer in the young orc's hand and stepped back. "Show us, brother." She urged. "Show us the shape of your rage."

For the next hour the tribe of Dushnikh Yal watched in silence as Khoruzoth forge his weapon. Each strike of the hammer caused green-tinged flames to flare along the metal. Finally, he dipped the serrated blade into a nearby water trough, quenching not only the hot metal, but the rage within his soul. With a shout he held the weapon aloft, a single-handed axe that for a moment shone in the light of Masser.

He was now a warrior.


	2. Chapter 2

_"Got an axe here. Good for cleaving up Forsworn."_ – Ghorza gra-Bagol

_"No one bests an orc."_ – unknown

The sentry fell.

Nagrub nocked another arrow to his bowstring, eyes fixed upon the battlements of the ancient Nordic stronghold for signs that the death of his target had been noticed. Beside him stood his two brothers, Umurn and Khoruzoth, their weapons free and ready in their hands. Three years had passed since the latter had passed his initiation rite and he now stood the same height as his older brothers, his body filled out and heavily muscled. More so than the others, Khoruzoth's eyes glinted with anticipation over the upcoming battle, for it would be his first taste of real combat. Nagrub glanced at his youngest brother with a grin on his face, recalling his first proper fight; a half-dozen bandits had tried to steal from he and his mother Arob while they were returning to Dushnikh Yal from Markarth, the nearest city.

Umurn did not share his older brother's mirth. Before the light had fallen too much to make out any proper details, he had noted the armour worn by the sentries of Hag Rock Redoubt; these were more than simple bandits. These were Forsworn, the Madmen of the Reach, and they greatly outnumbered the three orcs who were watching the camp from below. Nervously, Umurn adjusted the grip on his leather-bound shield and swung his mace a few times. He was no stranger to combat, but unlike his brother, Umurn did not relish fighting the way that Nagrub did. Where Nagrub had the wild ferocity that both Arob and Burguk shared, Umurn tended to be more methodical and even tempered, approaching combat in much the same way as he approached smithing.

A shout erupted from the distant Forsworn camp; Nagrub's work had been discovered. The gloom made it difficult to make out proper detail, but Nagrub had spent much of his life hunting in the dim woodlands of the southern Reach and with practised ease, he launched two arrows in quick succession towards the milling figures of the Forsworn warriors. One died, and another was injured before the rest scattered, finding cover from the unknown archer. More voices shouted from above, signalling that the rest of the camp had been alerted. Nagrub clapped his youngest brother on the shoulder.

"Are you ready, Khor?" he asked, using the shortened version of Khoruzoth's name. His brother grinned, axe and shield at the ready.

"My blade thirsts for action, brother." Khoruzoth replied.

"Then let us begin." Nagrub slung the bow over his shoulder and picked up his axe and shield. "Umurn. Follow Khor up the path and watch his back. I'll fight my way up the tower to the right and take out any archers they might have." He then pointed to the second level of the redoubt, where most of the Forsworn tents sat. "We'll reunite there."

Umurn nodded, adding "Malacath guide us."

"Malacath guide us." The other two replied in unison. The three Orcs took off in a brisk jog, shields up and weapons at the ready. When the path split, leading left up the redoubt and right to the tower, Nagrub beat his shield once with his axe, wishing his brothers luck, before breaking into a sprint to reach the base of the tower before any archers could mark him. Umurn and Khoruzoth continued to the left where a pair of Forsworn were making their way through a series of wooden barricades. Upon spotting the orcs, one of the Forsworn shouted a war-cry and the two began to charge towards the brothers. Khoruzoth faced the one on the right, a pale skinned man with a strange wood-and-bone sword.

He caught the sword on his shield, retaliating with a strike of his own. The Reachman twisted to avoid the axe before attempting a weak thrust. Khoruzoth caught the blade between his shield and the head of his axe, yanking the man forward and smashing the man's nose with his thick forehead. As his foe staggered backwards, tears streaming down his face, Khoruzoth pressed his advantage and sunk his axe into the man's neck. For a moment, time slowed for the orc. He watched as the light in the Forsworn's eyes died and the man sank to the ground, taking the axe with him. Khoruzoth stared as the body slid a foot down the sloped path. _Now I have killed._

Time resumed normally as Umurn kicked his brother in the leg. "We still have more enemies, stone-head! Pick up your weapon and keep fighting!"

Khoruzoth shook his head to clear his stupor. As he bent down to retrieve his axe, he took one final look into the dead man's eyes. He felt nothing. This man had been weak, but he was strong. Khoruzoth quickly caught up to his brother, who was dispatching another Forsworn. Umurn stepped back and inspected his brother.

"Good." He said. "Your eyes are clear. For a moment I had worried you might have coward's blood."

"I have killed and feel nothing." Khoruzoth replied. "I have the blood of a warrior."

"Just make sure it stays inside of you." Umurn grunted. "Come on, there are at least a half-dozen on the next landing."

During the next few minutes, six Forsworn fell to the brothers' combined might. At the last, Umurn received a wide but shallow gash from an enemy sword on his right arm. Khoruzoth split the offending warrior's skull with his axe, and after briefly checking to see that there were no more enemies nearby, inspected his brother's wound. He tore a strip of cloth from a nearby bedroll for a makeshift bandage.

"The wound is not deep," Khoruzoth stated. "though you will want to have Murbul look at it when we return to avoid infection. Can you still fight?"

Umurn experimentally flexed the fingers of the wounded arm, before picking up his mace from where it had fallen. "I can fight."

A sudden shout alerted them to a Forsworn that had remained hidden throughout the fight, waiting for the pair to be distracted. The man charged towards Khoruzoth's unprotected back, axe raised high. Umurn grabbed his brother by the shoulders, throwing him out of the way but leaving himself open and vulnerable. Khoruzoth managed a strangled cry of "No!" before the figure crashed into Umurn, sending them both to the ground. Khoruzoth scrambled to his brother's side only to see Umurn throw the now dead Forsworn off his chest, an arrow buried deep into the man's back. Both orcs looked up to where Nagrub stood fifty feet away, bow in hand and a small gash over his forehead. The elder brother bowed with a flourish before calling out, "You're welcome!"

Nagrub quickly moved towards his brothers. Khoruzoth inquired about his head wound, but Nagrub shook his head with a grin.

"It is less than a scratch. Besides," he added, pointing to the makeshift bandage on Umurn's arm, "I'm more concerned about that."

"It won't affect my swing." Umurn assured him. "I'll be fine until we return to the stronghold. We _are_ returning to the stronghold now, right?"

Nagrub flashed his brother a troubling grin.

"By the Ashpits, Nagrub!" Umurn growled. "We've killed off all the Forsworn, Khoruzoth's proven himself in combat – what more do we need to do besides looting the dead?"

The oldest brother gestured upward to where the three orcs could barely make out an ancient stone door. "I saw one of the Forsworn head inside the ruins before the battle. I'm fairly certain there are more within. No doubt they have worthwhile treasure inside. Just think of our father's face when we return to the stronghold laden with gold and gems!"

"And if we return with one of us dead? Or not at all?" Umurn argued, his arm outstretched in anger. "What then, Nagrub?"

"You worry too much, Umurn." Khoruzoth interjected. "We've killed nine between us, and Nagrub…"

"Six." He supplied with a proud smile.

"Nagrub has killed six." Khoruzoth continued. "If the ruins were filled with Forsworn, they'd have heard the fighting and come out. It is more likely there are only a few, and even if they are aware of us, they hide in fear."

Umurn looked at the eager faces of his brothers and shook his head. "Malacath preserve us," he groaned. "Now there are two of them!"

He let out a long sigh. "Fine. But Nagrub leads. And you," he pointed to Khoruzoth, "Will bring up the rear. That way if things go sour Nagrub will take the brunt of the strikes and I can still get you back to Dushnikh Yal in one piece."

"That suits me fine, brother!" Nagrub grinned. Khoruzoth scowled, as the arrangement meant he was unlikely to get a strike in unless they where overwhelmed by enemies, but he consented nonetheless. Nagrub quickly looked around for a safe place to hide his bow – he wouldn't need it in the cramped quarters of the ruins – settling on an out of the way bedroll that he gently tucked into the corner of a nearby tent. Then, after checking the straps on his shield were tight, began to lead his brothers into the depths of the Nordic ruins.

* * *

The initial encounters the orcs had within the ruins were swift and decisive. Nagrub settled most of the fights with a single blow; it seemed that all the worthy fighters had been outside. The single Forsworn he had let past was quickly dispatched by Umurn, much to Khoruzoth's displeasure. They'd quickly looted the bodies as they had passed, but found little of value aside from a pair of minor health potions, though these were on shelves rather than on the bodies of the Forsworn. Umurn took one, pleased with the effect it had on his injured arm, and gave the other to his younger brother. "Nagrub can look after himself." He muttered.

As they climbed further upwards through the ruins, they began to hear a low whispering. A strange sensation passed over the orcs. "Magic." Nagrub breathed lightly. "I've felt it before, when Murbul casts her rare spells. Be on your guard."

They reached the top of a winding staircase. Before them lay a doorway with a lowered portcullis, to the right a large room with a long stone table. Nagrub inspected the gate. "I cant see a way to open this."

"Good!" Umurn snorted. "We can go home."

"No, wait…" Khoruzoth objected, pointing to the wall opposite the barred gate. Through a gap in the stones a large lever could be seen. "That might open the gate." He walked over to the open doorway of the second room. "It looks like there is a passage through here that connects to the room with the lever."

Umurn was about to object but Khoruzoth had already started making his way into the room. Barely a second had passed before there was a yell of pain that accompanied a strong burst of the strange magical sensation they still felt. Umurn ran into the room to see his brother on the floor, holding the side of his face. The upper right half of his body was covered in burns. Umurn rushed to kneel at Khoruzoth's side, the action saving him from the same gout of flame that had struck his brother. To his right was a stone pillar with a glowing crystal that was spewing flames towards the two orcs. When Khoruzoth had fallen he had dropped below the height required to activate the magical trap, but even kneeling Umurn was still tall enough to set it off.

Umurn threw himself backwards, avoiding the flames. He pressed himself up against the alcove that housed the trap and peeked out cautiously. The crystal again spouted flames, but the gout was thin and Umurn felt no more heat than he would have from standing next to a campfire. Keeping his body pressed against the wall, he inched his way into the alcove until he stood behind the pillar, deactivating the flames. Gritting his teeth, he reached up and dislodged the crystal, singing his hand in the process but disabling the trap.

At this point Nagrub had reached the writhing form of his youngest brother. He reached into the pouch on Khoruzoth's side and withdrew the second potion. He popped the cork of the bottle, then gestured to Umurn. "You need to hold him down while I pour this down his throat." Umurn nodded, ignoring his own injury, and quickly took the two paces towards his brothers. Umurn quickly wrenched his brother's hands away from his face, wincing at the smell of burnt flesh. Nagrub grabbed the younger orc's jaw in one hand, risking bitten fingers, and proceeded to empty the bottle into Khoruzoth's mouth. As the magical potion took effect, the smell of burnt flesh began to dissipate, and the brothers watched as the burns began to heal. When finished, the skin was still pink and scarred, but otherwise healed over. Khoruzoth opened his eyes and his brothers were relieved to see that he did not appear to be blinded in his right eye.

"How do you fare, Khor?" Nagrub asked gently. Khoruzoth sat up slowly, patting his arm and face where the flames had struck him.

"Surprisingly well." Khoruzoth said, his eyes slightly wider. He rolled his shoulders a few times and picked up his axe. "I can fight."

"The hell you can!" Umurn shouted. "You've just had half your face melted off and magical potion or no, we are returning to the stronghold. There is no shame in retreating at this point."

Khoruzoth's eyebrows furrowed as he ran a hand over his facial scarring, then he shrugged. Aesthetics mattered little to orcs; if anything, ugly scars were treated as marks of honour. He looked both of his brothers in the eye before saying "No. We press on. There must be something of great value behind that gate, or there would not have been such a cruel trap."

Khoruzoth made to continue on towards the lever, but Nagrub grabbed his hand. "Wait, there may be more traps... I have an idea, I'll be back in a few minutes."

Nagrub left, heading back down the stairwell. When he had disappeared from view, Umurn gripped his brother's shoulder and stared angrily into his eyes.

"Are you mad, Khoruzoth?" Umurn growled. "Were it not for the good fortune of finding those potions, you would have died at worst, or been crippled at best! What makes you think that the rest of this cursed ruin will be any safer?"

"What would you have me do?" Khoruzoth argued. "The injuries I have taken are as much an insult to my body as if they had been caused by a foe. To retreat now would be a sign of weakness."

"No," Umurn countered, "to retreat would be a sign that you had more than rocks that skull of yours. Have you learnt nothing from Ghorbash's stories of his time in the Legion? There is no shame to retreat from the unknown unless you flee in fear!"

"And what, run home like a whipped dog with my tail between my legs?" Khoruzoth shouted, throwing Umurn's hand off his shoulder with a rough shove. As he began walking back towards the first room he continued. "I'm not leaving empty handed. So far we've found almost nothing of value in this damned place."

"We've found your fighting spirit at least." Umurn laughed. Angrily, Khoruzoth whipped around and faced his brother once more.

"I'll show you fighting spirit, you bastard!" With that, Khoruzoth lowered his shoulder and charged towards Umurn, tackling him and forcing him into the wall. Umurn let out a grunt of pain before slamming a knee into Khoruzoth's stomach. As the younger orc staggered back, Umurn stepped forward and threw a right hook at his brother's face. Khoruzoth parried awkwardly; the blow still stung his cheekbone enough to make his eyes water momentarily. He quickly took a defensive stance. The two brothers began circling each other, probing the other's defence with quick, sharp jabs. Khoruzoth had won the last few bouts they'd fought, but he'd had the feeling that Umurn hadn't been taking the fights too seriously.

A loose rock on the stony floor gave Khoruzoth an advantage when it caused Umurn to stumble. With a primal roar he launched himself at his older brother, tackling them both to the ground. The two grappled on the hard ground, fighting to dominate their opponent. But soon Umurn's experience began to win out, and Khoruzoth found himself underneath his brother, who was raining blows down on the younger orc's head. Stars flashed in Khoruzoth's vision as he tried to avoid the strikes, and soon a red mist tinged his vision. He threw his hand out and found the stone Umurn had tripped on. Khoruzoth struck his brother hard on the temple, stunning Umurn. Khoruzoth quickly reversed their positions and raised the hand holding the stone to strike the final blow.

A sharp whipping pain from a thin rod-like object struck Khoruzoth's hand and he released the stone on instinct. His eyes brimming with rage, he looked up to see his attacker. Nagrub stood before him, his normally jovial eyes now cold and angry. Khoruzoth blinked several times to clear the red mist from his vision as a now groaning Umurn began to sit up. Nagrub helped both of them to their feet, before striking them both in the stomach, causing them to double over and start retching.

"When it is time to challenge father for the position of Chief, I'll gladly let you two idiots kill each other." Nagrub fumed. "Until that day we are brothers. Whatever caused this fight, it is over."

Khoruzoth made as if to say something to the contrary, but a sharp look from Nagrub silenced his tongue. After a few moments, both fighters agreed with their elder brother. It was at this point Khoruzoth noticed the rod-like object in his brother's hand and inquired as to its origin and purpose.

"It's one of the bows that a dead Forsworn was carrying." Nagrub explained. "As to it's purpose…" He began walking towards the hallway that led to the lever. When he arrived at the furthest point the brothers had reached, he began tapping the floor with the unstrung bow. Umurn and Khoruzoth exchanged glances.

"He's gone mad." Umurn laughed, shaking his head.

"Else he's gone blind and hasn't told us." Khoruzoth agreed.

Nagrub ignored the naysayers and continued his tapping. He was soon rewarded with a shifting of the stone floor, followed by a rush of hot air as dozens of flaming jets erupted from tubes hidden amongst the stone pavers. He then turned to his brothers. "Impressed? I got the idea from stories my mother used to tell me about an old thief she used to know."

With that he turned and took a running leap over the trapped pavers, landing several feet further down the corridor.

"What would you have done if the trap had been repeated?" Khoruzoth smirked, pointing to the floor beneath his brother's feet.

"Why, then I'd look like you, dear brother." Nagrub retorted, laughing. With the lever now in front of him, Nagrub stepped forward. He gripped the lever with both hands and pulled, his actions rewarded with the satisfying clanking of hidden chains and the portcullis being raised. Nagrub nimbly leapt over the trap in the floor of the corridor and re-joined his brothers.

"Come, my dear brothers!" He laughed, placing a hand on his brother's backs and propelling them toward the now open gateway. "Fortune awaits!"


	3. Chapter 3

_"By the Ashpit, we can't go on like this."_ – Lob gro-Largash

_"Think you can mess with an Orc of the Reach?"_ – Mulush gro-Shugarz

The stairs exploded.

Splinters and fragmented rock rained down on the three orcs, huddled as they were behind a small outcrop of rock. Waves of heat washed over the brothers as balls of flame both large and small struck the surrounding ground. Further up the mountainside, a hideous birdlike creature pointed a long taloned finger towards the pile of rocks the orcs were hiding behind and screeched a command. Two bare-chested humans, garbed in Forsworn armour and sporting glowing briars in place of their hearts, lurched forward toward the trio. At the same time, the bird-like hagraven prepared and cast another spell of fireball.

"For the record," Umurn shouted, his voice barely audible now that the creature had resumed her magical assault, "this is your fault, Nagrub."

* * *

The corridor that had been blocked by the portcullis was narrow with sharp turns and steep inclines. It had ended with a doorway that opened to the upper stories of an old Nordic tower. Through large cracks in the wooden floorboards the brothers could see mostly rubble; above they could see the outline of a chest or set of draws. A narrow set of wooden stairs ascended two stories upwards to an open ceiling, terminating at a flat section of mountaintop. Flickering lights, as if from a flame, danced about throwing eerie looking shadows. Soft chanting – human, and something distinctively not, sounded from somewhere above.

Now wary of traps, Nagrub gingerly led his brothers towards the stairs, his makeshift trap-detector tapping softly. To great relief, neither the stairs nor the path leading up to them were trapped. Upon reaching the first story landing, Khoruzoth started towards the now visible chest, but Nagrub shook his head and gestured upwards to the flickering firelight and chanting voices. In a low voice he whispered:

"I'm going to stick my head over that ridge, see what we are up against." Nagrub set his shield down gently but held on to his axe as he crept silently up the stairs. As he raised his head high enough to see over the edge of the tower top, he sucked in a sharp intake of breath in surprise. A pathway led up about seventy feet from the stairwell to a large stone wall covered in ancient runes and capped with a carved dragon skull. Below the wall stood three figures surrounding a large stone table. Two of the figures were human; Forsworn, judging by their armour they wore. The third was a hunched, evil looking figure made more fearsome by the flickering firelight.

A vaguely human head sat upon a gangly, thin body, both of which were reminiscent of an aged, decrepit female. Its nose and chin were curved and pointed, and Nagrub was reminded of a hawk's beak. Withered hands ended in long, sharp talons. A thick black cloak, seemingly made of raven's feathers, completed the look. Nagrub watched as the creature took a long-bladed dagger and began ritualistically carving into the body of a mountain goat, chanting in it's strange, screeching tongue. The two Forsworn added their voices to the chant; the three voices together echoing strangely off the surrounding rock.

Nagrub was about to crawl back down to his brothers and admit these next foes might be too much for them when he spotted a large, ornate chest off to the right of the assembled figures. Greed got the better of him; he judged the reward that must be housed within that chest was far greater than the risk posed by the unknown foes. He signalled for his brothers to join him and as they got close he whispered his instructions.

"On my command, we rush them. There are three enemies, two of them are Forsworn. You take them out, I'll take the big thing in the middle."

"What big thing?" Umurn asked, a trace of concern in his voice. He quickly peeked over the edge, saw the hagraven, and swore softly. "You're going to get us killed, Nagrub. I've heard stories of those things, they're magic users. To attack them without proper preparation is stupid."

Nagrub snorted. "Bah. Magic users are never very powerful. They might toss around a pretty little fireball or lightning bolt, but once you get up close they are as weak as a mewling kitten. There is plenty of cover on the way up to the wall. Now come on, let's go!"

With a shout Nagrub leapt up and began charging up the path to the Forsworn, leaving his brothers little choice but to follow him. At his cry all three chanters ceased their intonations, turning as one to face the approaching orcs. The hagraven raised one taloned hand and murmured an incantation. A reddish glow formed in its hand, accompanied by the sound of rushing air. The creature released the spell, sending a boulder-sized ball of flame towards the trio of orcs, who leapt to one side in panic. The fireball impacted into the earth, sending a burst of dirt and stone skyward.

"Pretty little fireball huh?" Umurn shouted as another ball of flame exploded.

"I was wrong alright?" Nagrub shouted back as he risked a peek over the protective cover of stone. He quickly ducked back below as a third fireball struck the makeshift shelter, sending heated rock fragments tumbling onto the heads of the three orcs. "Lets just get back down the tower! There's a gap between each of the spells. It'll be close, but we should make it."

Another fireball rocked the wall. The stones now had a faint red glow, and the orcs could feel the heat coming off them. "As soon as the next one hits, we run!"

Their bodies tense with anticipation, the three brothers readied themselves for a sprint, waiting for the tell-tale sound of whistling air. As soon as they heard it, Nagrub yelled, "NOW!"

With a resounding crash the pile of stones that had served as the orc's shelter exploded outward, sending near-molten rock whistling through the cold night air, but the three brothers were already on the move. As the hagraven prepared to cast yet another spell, Khoruzoth gauged the remaining distance to the stair well. _We're not going to make it,_ he realised. With a cry he wrenched his brothers sideways, sending the three of them tumbling behind an outcrop of stone. A crackling fireball shot past the space they had just been standing, impacting on the wooden frame of the tower's interior. Wood and stone exploded in a fiery blaze as the remaining structure of the Nordic ruin collapsed in on itself. Khoruzoth risked a glance into the smouldering remains of the tower; the doorway leading back into the ruins could be cleared, but not without dealing with the hagraven and its Forsworn companions first.

A quick look back up the hill saw the hagraven direct the two Forsworn down towards the orcs. Even in the uncertain light of the fire-lit evening, Khoruzoth could make out the grotesquely altered physique of the two figures. In place of where a normal creature's heart would reside, these figures' hearts had been removed and replaced with a thorny, plant-like artefact. As they made their way down the stony path, these briar-hearted creatures moved unnaturally, as if they were not in full control of their bodies. A resurgence of flame in the hagraven's hand put an end to Khoruzoth's observations, and he ducked back behind the outcrop to avoid the flaming sphere. As the fiery explosion sent bursts of heat and dirt in all directions, Khoruzoth heard Umurn loudly cast blame on Nagrub. Khoruzoth angrily aimed a kick at the middle brother. "It doesn't matter anymore! Shut up and make yourself useful, we're about to have company!"

The first of the briar-hearts came into view, a pair of axes in its hands. The Forsworn warrior twirled the two weapons in an enchanting but deadly dance. Khoruzoth caught the first axe on his shield, surprised at the amount of force behind the blow. The second axe swung upwards and the orc threw his head back, barely avoiding a blow that would have split his chin open. Moving on instinct, Khoruzoth recovered just in time to sidestep away from a massive overhead strike. The momentum of the intended blow forced the Forsworn briefly to its knees, the weapon imbedding itself an inch into the dirt. Khoruzoth quickly struck with his own blade, carving a deep gash in the Forsworn's upper arm that would have incapacitated any normal foe. But the unnatural creature seemed able to ignore the wound, standing back up and retaliating with two more strikes in quick succession. Khoruzoth felt himself being pressed backwards as he struggled to remember his uncle's lessons on fighting opponents with dual weapons.

Meanwhile, the second Forsworn had leapt over the outcrop, landing on the other side of Nagrub and Umurn. Nagrub quickly engaged the new foe, but this Forsworn was wielding a pair of the strange bone-swords with deadly efficiency. As Umurn moved in to assist his brother, the Forsworn switched targets and lunged at the younger orc. Nagrub threw himself between the blade and his brother, earning a small gash to his upper chest.

"I've got this one!" Nagrub shouted, using his shield offensively to drive the briar-heart back a step. "You help Khor!"

Umurn spun around to see his youngest brother pressed up against the stone ridge, the axe-wielding briar-heart closing in. Khoruzoth ducked below a swing that struck with enough force to chip the stone, before sweeping his legs in an attempt to topple the Forsworn. The kick staggered the briar-heart momentarily, giving Umurn a chance to close the gap. He leapt towards his target, slamming his mace onto the Forsworn's right shoulder with a satisfying crunch of breaking bones. No cry of pain emanated from the Forsworn; instead there was an immediate counterstrike in the form of an uppercut swing. Fortunately for Umurn, it was the haft of the axe that struck his chin, but it was still enough to knock loose a tooth and send him flying. Fighting not to lose consciousness, he scrambled back to his feet only to see the Forsworn's briar-heart begin to glow, followed by its wounded shoulder snapping back into place with a sickening crack. Umurn threw a glance toward Khoruzoth, who gave him a determined look in return. Umurn knew they had come to the same conclusion: _We need to get that heart._

A short distance away, Nagrub was still trading blows with the second Forsworn. By now they were both covered in minor wounds, but while Nagrub was beginning to tire, his foe was showing no signs of fatigue. As the Forsworn forced him backwards a step, Nagrub came to a grim conclusion. If he didn't finish the fight soon, he wouldn't finish the fight at all. Gritting his teeth, the orc redoubled his assault, hoping to quickly overwhelm his opponent with a succession of heavy blows. But his haste nearly proved to be his undoing, as he suddenly found himself overextended. The Forsworn had sidestepped an overhead strike, and Nagrub had stumbled forward, exposing his back to the deadly enemy. With panic threatening to consume him, Nagrub reached deep within himself and summoned a sudden burst of power. With a roar he swung his axe with all the strength he could muster in a back-handed arc. The blade tore through the neck of the Forsworn with a wet thud, sending its head flying. As the body of his foe dropped to the ground, Nagrub let out a short laugh, followed by a gasp as he felt a sharp pain in his side. He dropped his axe instinctively, his hand dropping to the site of the pain. He looked down, and he could see blood beginning to well through his fingers. Nagrub sank to one knee, then two as darkness crept onto the edges of his vision. As he felt himself beginning to topple over, he murmured, to no one in particular, "I'll just… have a little rest."

Neither Umurn nor Khoruzoth saw their brother fall. They were preoccupied by the task at hand; removing the briar-heart from the Forsworn warrior without killing themselves in the process. Though they outnumbered the axe-wielding fighter, panic and fatigue were beginning to take their toll, while the Forsworn seemed to have been completely renewed by the magical glow of its heart. Finally, a mistimed strike led to Umurn being disarmed, his mace sent flying off into the darkness by the Forsworn's axe. The Forsworn then turned both its weapons on Khoruzoth. The youngest orc successfully blocked one strike, then two, but the third was an overhand strike with both weapons. Khoruzoth cried out in agony as the blow shattered his shield; fracturing, if not breaking his forearm. Throwing caution to the wind, Umurn launched himself forwards to defend his brother. With arms outstretched he tackled the Forsworn before it could strike again.

As the two fighters fell, the Forsworn struggled to bring the axes down on Umurn's body, but the angle was awkward, and the strikes failed to penetrate the thick hide of Umurn's armour. Umurn kept a tight grip on the Forsworn's waist as they crashed to the ground, knowing that to let go would be his downfall. The Forsworn bucked and writhed in an attempt to throw the orc off, but Umurn held on with grim determination, only letting go when the haft of one of the Forsworn's axes glanced off the back of his head, stunning him momentarily. As the Forsworn tried to roll away, Umurn's hand drew across the hollow cavity that housed the briar-heart. He quickly thrust his hand into the hollow, his fingers closing around the sharp thorns of the false heart. The Forsworn began to shake violently, but Umurn refused to let go despite the damage being done to his hand. With a sickening pop, he wrenched the heart from the Forsworn's chest, its body instantly going still.

Umurn forced himself to stand, heart still in hand, and he thrust it into the air with a shout of victory. Khoruzoth limped toward him, holding his injured arm by his side. It was then they heard the hagraven screech in displeasure, followed by the dreaded sound of rushing air. Khoruzoth saw the fireball first and shouted a warning. Umurn looked up the hill just as the hagraven released the spell. Despite knowing the action was futile, he raised his battered shield to protect himself. Khoruzoth watched helplessly as the blast struck his brother's shield; the resultant burst of light blinding him temporarily. As his sight returned, Khoruzoth uttered a single, strangled cry.

Umurn was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

_"Malacath smiles on the axe-wielder."_ – Shuftharz gra-Khazgur

_"It's no wonder our enemies fear the sight of an Orc warrior."_ – Umurn gro-Dushnikh

The rain fell.

Umurn awoke to the cool liquid falling from the sky, bringing blessed relief to his burned skin and the fiery pain of his back. He let out a soft groan, forcing his eyes open. The sky was grey and cloudy, but lighter than it had been during the fight with the Forsworn. Several hours must have passed since he had been struck by the fireball that threw him into the rubble of the ruined Nordic tower. He remembered the sudden blast of super-heated air, feeling his leather-bound wooden shield shatter and being catapulted backwards into the ruined tower. He'd hit the mix of wood and fragmented stone with enough force to knock him unconscious.

It had been close to midnight when the three orcs had reached the top of the ruins. It was day now, though Umurn had no way of knowing if it was dawn or dusk. Fighting down nausea, he forced himself to sit upright. Immediately Umurn's head began to ring with a throbbing headache, and when he touched the back of his skull, his fingers came away bloody. He rolled over onto his hands and knees, every muscle protesting at the movement. The entire back half of his body seemed to be one giant bruise; the front a giant burn. Unable to bring himself to rise any further, Umurn collapsed back into a seated position, his head lolling back with his mouth open, but his eyes closed.

As the raindrops began to hit his tongue, he suddenly realised how thirsty he was. He reached down to where his waterskin had hung by his waist, only to find that it had fallen off some time during the fight. Umurn forced his groggy eyes to open once more and looked about the ruins. He saw the waterskin a few feet away and managed to summon the strength to crawl over to it. Umurn quickly popped the cork and lifted the skin to drink, but there was less than a mouthful remaining. The impact had split the skin, leaching most of the water into the rubble below. Cursing, Umurn threw the ruined waterskin to one side. He looked to his left, where the rubble had fallen over the doorway that led into the ruins and cursed again. He'd seen several bottles of wine amongst the Forsworn's effects, but he was in no state to start clearing the door. Looking up, he saw the ridge of the mountaintop stood eight feet above the rubble. The tower wall was roughly hewn and would have normally been an easy climb at that distance, but with the way he felt it might as well have been a mile high. Resigning himself to the fact that he'd get precious little water without finding his brothers' waterskins, he forced himself to stand and limped his way over to the wall.

He didn't know if Khoruzoth or Nagrub had survived the night, but right now Umurn didn't care. Unless the two had been taken captive by the hagraven, which was unlikely, he reasoned that his brothers had either defeated the other Forsworn and killed the hagraven or had died in the attempt. Either way they'd have brought glory to their tribe in Malacath's eyes, and that was enough for Umurn. The fact that one or two enemies may still be alive did not escape Umurn; despite his useless shield and lack of weapon he would still rather die fighting than die of thirst. Reaching the wall, he stretched his arms as high as possible, managing to grasp the top of the ridge with the tips of his fingers. Slowly and carefully he began to climb, preferring to be sure of each step rather than risk a fall. After an embarrassingly long five minutes of climbing, he finally crested the ridge and rolled onto his back, breathing heavily. After several seconds of silence passed and there was no sign of attack, Umurn let out a pained chuckle. "I don't know how we did it boys, but we won!"

Now very conscious of the dryness in his throat, Umurn turned himself over to try to see where his brothers had ended up. Nagrub was the first he saw, the older orc leaning against the rocky outcrop with his hand on his side and his face paler than Umurn had ever seen. His thirst forgotten, Umurn scrambled to his feet and half-ran, half-stumbled towards his brother, calling out his name. Nagrub was still and unresponsive, showing no signs of life. The rain had washed most of the blood into the soil, but Nagrub's fingers and side were still stained with red. Umurn feared the worst. He knelt close to his brother and placed an ear to his chest. Several long moments passed before at last Umurn was rewarded with a single, low, rattling breath. Umurn sat back up, feeling a mixture of relief and concern. Nagrub was alive, but he was in a bad way.

It was then Umurn noticed the headless body of the Forsworn, Nagrub's fallen axe at its feet. Umurn shook his head, a wry grin on his face. It had taken the combined strength of Umurn and Khoruzoth, mixed with a fair amount of good fortune, to kill their Forsworn target. Nagrub had taken one on alone and lived. _For now_, he reminded himself grimly.

Umurn took a moment to assess the situation. His older brother was heavily wounded, probably dying. The two potions they had found within the ruins had been used up, and the doorway back down was blocked by rubble that would have taken at least a half-hour to clear with all three brothers at full strength. He didn't know what had happened to Khoruzoth; the last he had seen of his younger brother was that Khoruzoth had a wounded arm and an angry hagraven was still in play. To make matters worse, it was raining. And gods, was he thirsty!

Realizing that there was nothing to be gained from inaction, Umurn got to his feet. He picked up his brother's axe, then gently removed the shield from his brother's arm. He left the waterskin for now; the bag sat in the small of Nagrub's back and Umurn didn't want to risk injuring him further. Standing, he limped over to the stone pathway that led up to where he had last seen the hagraven. The fires near the stone table had been extinguished by the rain, but of the hagraven he could see nothing. Umurn slowly made his way up the pathway and past the second dead Forsworn, noticing for the first time the intricate stone wall that formed a backdrop to the scene and the ornate chest that had convinced Nagrub an attack was worthwhile. The wall was merely a curiosity, but there was every chance that the chest would contain a healing potion. For the first time since regaining consciousness, hope began to grow in Umurn's heart.

He made a beeline towards the chest, praying that the Forsworn hadn't bothered to lock it. Fortune seemed to choose this moment to smile on him, and with a sigh of relief he lifted the heavy wooden lid with a creak. Inside were a number of items: a small pouch of gold; a sword with a number of faint, glowing runes that indicated it was likely enchanted; a pair of thumbnail-sized amethysts – but no potions. Umurn slammed the lid of the chest back down with a roar of frustration. The treasure haul would have been worth a good couple hundred septims to the right buyers in Markarth; right now, Umurn would have happily traded it all for a healing potion worth less than a tenth of that. To die in combat was honourable; the slow suffering of Nagrub was not. Umurn stood, eyes searching the surrounds hoping for a potion that had been set aside somewhere safe, yet visible. It was then he saw the bodies.

They had been obscured from view by what Umurn now saw to be a stone altar. His brother, Khoruzoth; and what Umurn assumed had once been the hagraven. Of the hagraven, there was nothing but a pile of gore and bone fragments, interspersed with the remnants of the raven-feather cloak it had once worn. Next to it Khoruzoth lay on his back, covered in so much blood and viscera that the rain had only been able to wash away a fraction. He held an axe in each hand, even though the left forearm, broken by the Forsworn earlier, had now swelled up to twice the size of the right. Beneath the gore, Umurn could see that his brother had received additional burns to match the ones he'd received in the ruins; these now covered most of his upper body. Long gashes also appeared on his chest and arms, leading Umurn to wonder just how much of the blood had been his, rather than the hagraven's.

Umurn frowned, looking at the axe in Khoruzoth's left hand. The grey-green metal of the axe-head indicated that it was made of orichalcum, same as the rest of the weapons the three brothers had brought. Yet of axes they had brought only two: Khoruzoth's original weapon, carried in his right hand; and the one Umurn had retrieved from Nagrub's side. _Where had the third one come from_, Umurn wondered. He was about to reach for the mysterious axe when his brother began to cough and gasp with pain, choosing that moment to regain consciousness. At first, Khoruzoth was confused and he looked around with a pained expression. Then he caught sight of Umurn, and with a grimace let out a coarse whisper.

"Umurn? I'm dead, I take it."

"No, you are very much alive." Umurn reassured him. "Though I can't for the life of me figure out how."

Khoruzoth tried to sit up, but his wounds were too draining. With a sigh he replied. "I should say the same thing to you. Last I saw, you'd been obliterated by one of the hagraven's fireballs."

Umurn chuckled. "You know me, brother. I'm stubborn as unyielding iron. The fireball simply threw me into the tower ruins. But what of you, Khoruzoth? You were at the bottom of the path, arm broken, with fireballs raining down all around. How did you go from that to–" Umurn gestured to the remains of the hagraven "–this?"

Khoruzoth raised his head slightly to see the mangled corpse. "I did that?" he blinked in confusion.

"Well I'm damned sure it wasn't the goat!" Umurn laughed, gesturing to the carcass on the altar behind him.

"It could have been Nagrub." Khoruzoth suggested. Umurn's face turned downcast.

"Nagrub took a heavy wound in his fight against the other Forsworn." Umurn explained. "He's alive, but he's in a bad way. At the very least, Nagrub needs a bandage to stop the bleeding, but there is nothing up here I can use without risking infection. I'd use a potion, but we're out and the doorway leading back through the ruins has been blocked by rubble that would take far to long to clear, seeing as both you and he are incapacitated."

"What about the chest?" Khoruzoth asked.

"I've tried that." Umurn replied dejectedly, gesturing towards the ornate chest with his palm upturned. "There's nothing helpful in there."

"Not that one," Khoruzoth said, shaking his head. The movement caused him a flash of pain and he grimaced. "I mean the one that was on the first-floor landing of the tower."

Umurn stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Yes… Yes, there was another chest wasn't there? I'll go back down and check. With luck it won't be buried too deep in the rubble. Are you going to be alright if I leave?"

Khoruzoth barked a short, pained laugh. "My body feels as though it is on fire, and it hurts like hell every time I move, but I don't think I'm in danger of dying just yet." He looked up at his older brother. "I could damn sure use something to drink though; and this rain, while cooling, is not falling fast enough to properly whet my throat."

"Do you still have your waterskin?" Umurn asked. "Mine burst when I fell into the tower."

"I think so." Khoruzoth replied, painfully shifting his body to allow Umurn to access the bag from beneath him. "It doesn't feel as though it has leaked, but the rain makes it difficult to tell."

Umurn reached beneath his brother, gently unclipping the belt the waterskin had hung from. He gave the skin an experimental shake, pleased with the satisfying sound of heavy sloshing that indicated it was near full. He popped the cork and brought the mouthpiece down to his brother, tilting Khoruzoth's head slightly so he would not choke on the water. Khoruzoth took three deep draughts from the skin before throwing his head back with a contented sigh. "Like wine from the gods." He smiled, closing his eyes and breathing deeply.

Umurn quenched his own resurfaced thirst before replacing the cork and setting the skin down beside his brother. He took one last look over Khoruzoth's wounds; the burns, the gashes and the broken arm; and compared them to the mess of blood and gore that was the hagraven. Clearly Malacath had favoured his brother, to have blessed Khoruzoth with a such a powerful rage state that he had been able to ignore a broken arm long enough to mash his foe to a pulp. If this was a sign of things to come, then Umurn and Nagrub would have a very difficult fight on their hands when it came time for the brothers to fight for the right to challenge their father for the title of Chief. Now that Khoruzoth, as the youngest sibling, had bloodied his blade on a worthwhile foe, that day would fast approach. But despite knowing that his brothers would one day stand between him and the rule of the stronghold, it never occurred to Umurn to let them die, or to take advantage of their current weak states. As he made his way back down the hill towards the ruined tower, his only thoughts were on returning his brothers to full strength.

While Umurn searched for the second chest, Khoruzoth searched his memories for the events of the previous night. His efforts were hindered by the fiery pain spread across his body, and the constant throbbing of his broken arm, but he gradually began to recall what had transpired between the fireball striking Umurn and his waking up at the top of the hill.

Much as it had on the night of his initiation, red mist appeared before Khoruzoth's vision at the sight of his brother's apparent destruction. With his shield destroyed, he had reached for one of the Forsworn Briar-heart's dropped axes, the lancing pain in his left arm fuelling the flames growing within him. His blood boiled, and with a primal roar he had charged at the hagraven. The creature had managed to launch three fireballs towards the orc; two he had dodged, the third he had struck mid-air with his twin axes. Had he not been in a rage state, he likely would have suffered the same fate as Umurn; as it was, he simply weathered the heat and weight of the blow, the pain of the burns only adding to his rage. Upon his reaching the hagraven, the creature had lashed out at him with its vicious talons, screeching in its horrible, bird-like voice. Khoruzoth retaliated in kind; striking three times at the creature before breaking through its guard and burying an axe in its forehead. The pitch-black eyes of the hagraven glazed over as the life fled its body. But Khoruzoth's rage was not satisfied with the death of his foe. He continued to strike at the creature, scattering blood and gore all around him. When his rage had finally dissipated, little remained of the hagraven. His normal vision returned, and Khoruzoth was suddenly struck with the full brunt of his injuries. The pain had quickly overwhelmed him, and he had started to sink into unconsciousness. As his eyes began to close, a sudden strike of lightning had lit up the night sky.

Suddenly thirsty after his recollection, Khoruzoth forced himself into a seated position, cradling his left arm. Every nerve of his body screamed with pain, and he came close to blacking out again. Khoruzoth lifted the waterskin to his mouth and gripped the cork between his teeth. With a great deal of effort, he opened the skin, spitting the cork to the side. He drank deeply until the skin was near empty before being satisfied. After struggling to replace the cork, he began to try to wash some of the gore off his body before the pain became too much, and he again lapsed into unconsciousness.

Meanwhile, Umurn had succeeded in clearing the rubble surrounding the second chest, a simple affair of wood and iron fittings. The lock had been damaged by the collapsing tower, negating any need for a key, but Umurn was grateful to note that the falling stone didn't seem to have affected the contents within. Umurn lifted the lid and was disappointed at first; the chest seemed only to contain ornate robes in a similar style to the Forsworn armour. But as he dug a little deeper, he was rewarded with the sight of two small vials of liquid. One was the same reddish colour as the previous healing potions they had uncovered; this he pocketed for later use on Nagrub. The second was deep emerald green in colour. Umurn broke the wax seal of the second vial and gave it an experimental sniff. The smell was pleasant, if a bit pungent, and it reminded Umurn of the concoctions Murbul occasionally made to allow the stronghold's hunters to keep up their strength through long nights of hunting.

Hoping the contents of the vial were not actually poisonous, Umurn quickly downed the green liquid. A wave of coldness spread throughout his body, and he suddenly felt most of his aches and weariness leave him, though the pain of his bruises and burns remained. Relieved, he rose and began to make his way back to the stone ridge, but a thought struck him. He quickly returned to the chest and took three of the robes, stuffing them into his belt.

Umurn climbed back up the stone wall in a matter of seconds, pleased that he now had most of his strength back. He reached Nagrub and proceeded to pour the healing potion down his brother's throat. A soft golden glow, barely visible in the dim light, momentarily appeared at the site of Nagrub's injury beneath his fingers. After several seconds had passed, Umurn gently pried Nagrub's fingers, sticky with partially dried blood, away from the wound. Seeing no fresh welling of blood, Umurn shifted his brother to get to his waterskin and proceeded to carefully wipe the area clear of blood, wetting the corner of one of the robes with water from the bag. Beneath sat a fresh pink scar, and Umurn breathed a sigh of relief. The potion had done its job, and so long as Nagrub had not lost too much blood, he should recover fine.

Umurn laid his head on Nagrub's chest to once again check his breathing. After deciding that Nagrub was breathing normally, Umurn lay one of the robes over his brother's body to protect him somewhat from the rain. Returning to the top of the hill, he discovered that Khoruzoth was once again unconscious. He spent the next several minutes routinely cleaning the blood and viscera from Khoruzoth's arms and upper body with the second robe. Once satisfied, Umurn tore the remaining robe into strips and proceeded to bind his brother's wounds. For the broken arm he could do little but stabilise the bone by using the hilts of Khoruzoth's axes as makeshift splints. The bone would need to be reset when they returned to the stronghold, but it would reduce the pain of bone grating on bone.

Khoruzoth awoke just as Umurn was finishing. He exhaled sharply from the pain but thanked his brother for his aid. Umurn helped the younger orc to his feet, throwing Khoruzoth's good arm over his shoulders. Together they limped back down the hill towards Nagrub. Umurn sat Khoruzoth down next to their older brother and passed him Nagrub's now half-empty waterskin.

"Keep an eye on him." Umurn said, indicating the sleeping form of Nagrub. "If he wakes, shout. I'm going to attempt to clear the rubble from the doorway of the tower, so that we can leave this blasted place."

His wounds flaring with pain from the exertion of walking down the hill, Khoruzoth could only nod.


End file.
